


В Москве

by DT_K



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, USSR, WW2, real history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 12:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DT_K/pseuds/DT_K
Summary: Long live France&Russia♥Both Chinese and English available.Citation is made only in Chinese because most of the resources were quoted in Chinese web.The English version is shorter.Please comment know if anything misleads.Chinese version available in 2017 fanbook "Ivan Braginsky".中文参稿2017暑期露中心战争向同人合志《伊万·布拉金斯基》





	В Москве

В Москве  
Axis Power Hetalia Fanfiction  
Francis Bonnefoy X Ivan Braginsky

行了，别在门外傻站着，进来，来客厅坐着——别坐那里，没看到弹簧蹦出来了吗？来这儿，靠近火炉，会更暖和一点。好，你要喝什么？我家没什么好饮料。酒？水？红茶？你不会想喝我家的咖啡，除非你愿意喝过期的。  
你要知道我是心血来潮才会放你进来的。在我刚回国那会儿，什么样的记者没找过我？彼得·亚伯拉罕1，卢西安·伯德格2，英国、美国和法国的那些小子们为了我嘴里的一句话能打到头破血流。可我呢？我把他们统统赶出去了，连门都没对他们开过——别说话！从现在开始，我说，你听，不许插嘴。再说一句我就把你赶出去。要不是看你在家门口求了那么多天，我可不会把你放进来。  
好吧。说说你最想知道的。有关于“那场战争”，我其实没有多少好讲的。所以我要给你讲一个故事。  
上世纪三十年代末——大概是那段时间，三十年代末四十年代初……体谅下我这个可怜的老家伙吧，毕竟过去了这么多年，很多事情我都记不清了——我过得很糟。我混在难民群里流浪，挨饿受冻，跟猴子一样从头发里挑虱子。你是个记者，所以你应该很清楚当时发生了什么——你做过功课了对吧？好，我要告诉你的是，我和一群苏联难民们流浪到莫斯科，也就是当时苏联的首都——反正那时苏联和德国在打仗，边境什么的都算个屁，闭着眼睛都能走过去——我要说的是，莫斯科那是个挺漂亮的城市，当然，只要有面包有毯子有酒还有火，一切城市在我眼中都很漂亮。当时有几个苏联官员接管了我们这群难民，他们给我们安排工作，给我们找几个愿意收留难民的苏联家庭，我随后被一个带袖章的家伙分配给一个姓“布拉金斯基”的——一对挺好相处的姐妹，姐姐很温柔，妹妹长得更漂亮些——分配意味着我除了完成难民署交付的任务外还得吃她们家的饭，为她们家清理房间，洗衣服，替她们用粮票领食物，每天傍晚拎着水桶去公共水龙头那儿打水，再去厨房排队占个位置，最后在她们家的壁炉旁裹个毯子睡觉。你能相信吗？那时苏联人住的那什么集体宿舍似的房子，一层二十多户人居然共用一间只有四个灶台的厨房和洗衣室，冬天还会断水。听上去挺凄惨的是吧？相信我，如果你当时身处巴黎，你就会觉得在莫斯科为两个女人做事不算什么，尽管她们根本不懂法语，菜难吃得要死，壁炉里的火也总烧不旺，还老是在背后骂我好吃懒做——她们以为我一点俄语都听不懂？哈，真是好笑。  
之后，某天晚上，当我好端端的睡着的时候，有个家伙摸黑溜了进来。他在路过客厅时看到了我，突然就拽住我的头发狠狠地往墙上掼——看到我额头上这道疤没？就是那家伙留给我的——我放声大叫，往他身上不知道是哪儿的地方踹了几脚，我们打架的声音吵醒了那对姐妹，她们从卧室里冲出来，姐姐拉开他，妹妹把我推到边上去。我花了好一会儿才从他们的争吵声中了解到这是“布拉金斯基”家的最后一位成员，他很不满他的姐妹擅自收留我的行为——至少我觉得“资本主义的白皮猪”不是个褒义词。“法兰西乞丐”，“懦夫”，“吃剩饭的”，我可没法反驳他，毕竟那时我的俄语水平还不允许我随心所欲的骂人，而且那家伙背上还背着一把枪。  
笑什么笑，枪不是重点……别笑！  
不过说实在话，那个家伙真是个帅小伙儿。鼻梁挺翘，浓眉大眼，壮实又高大。你见过紫色的眼睛吗？你见过一个二十出头的小伙子长白色头发吗？反正我这辈子只在他身上见过这样的组合——特别好看，像个从罗马柱上走下来的雕像。我是指，如果当年我有机会把他带到法国任何一个十字路口上去，他立马就会被女人们淹没。哈哈，无数支玫瑰砸在他脸上，还有丝巾，橙的、白的、红的，他肯定会像个没见过世面的乡下小子一样目瞪口呆。  
我那时也挺英俊的。不过我没能留下照片，我的或者他的都没有。你就根据我的描述， 好好想想该怎么写他有多受人欢迎吧。  
总之，在他姐妹的解释下我们言和了。那姐姐对他说了一通“他是个好人”之类的话，妹妹则一直站在他身边抱着他。我们互相道了歉，他说他叫伊万·伊万诺维奇·布拉金斯基，孤儿，在莫斯科的什么什么大学里读工程学，又参了什么什么军，是一位工兵。我说我叫弗朗西斯·波诺弗瓦，是个法国人。他听了之后立刻不说话了，叫他姐姐拿来两瓶酒，坐在我身边说今夜要跟我喝个痛快。  
好吧，估计你也猜到了，我要跟你说的故事并不是什么大事儿，只是这个夜晚，我和伊万·伊万诺维奇·布拉金斯基这个酒鬼间的几句话——他是个酒鬼。对，他当兵，但他还是个酒鬼，苏联的士兵都是酒鬼！他那烂醉的曾祖父从马背上摔下来死了，祖父则在酒吧的争执里被人拧断了脖子，他的父亲在喝完一瓶伏特加后醉死在床上，而他也因酗酒过度而死，这是后来我从他妹妹那里知道的——总而言之，他是个实实在在的酒鬼。我跟他坐在壁炉边上，一左一右，他穿着他暖和的军大衣，背着枪，喝水似的往肚子里灌伏特加，我就只能裹着身上那条破毯子一口一口的抿——你受不了那种喝法的，相信我，不然你铁定会得胃溃疡，因为我知道他得了——然后他开始说胡话，一堆胡话。这个烂人。  
我先提醒你，如果你不想听一个糟老头子带着明显又偏激的个人观点大谈战争问题，赶紧走。我不拦你。  
好了，好了，别点头了。那天晚上，对吧？他在壁炉前牛饮伏特加，醉得跟苏联的导弹一样快——我知道这个比喻很烂，但别为此打断我——他开始问“波诺弗瓦，你有没有中间名？”我说“没有，我没有，我的父亲从没想过给我起个中间名——虽然我父亲的名字也是‘弗朗西斯’，就像你父亲的名字也是‘伊万’，但你休想叫我‘弗朗西斯维奇’。你要是这么叫了我就把我手里这个酒瓶砸在你头上，然后去强奸你的姐姐和妹妹。我说到做到。”伊万说：“好，有本事你试试看，弗朗西斯维奇。”  
他说“弗朗西斯维奇”时就像个惹是生非的美国牛仔那样讨厌。但我可不会强奸他的姐妹，因为在他面前这么做和送死没什么两样。不过我装了装样子。我用那铁酒瓶往他脑袋上砸了好几下，然后站起来往那对姐妹的卧室走，伊万登时就拽着我的脚踝把我按到地上。他骑上来对着我的脸就是一拳，我也猛击他的胸口；他揪我的头发，我踢他的蛋。我不会用俄语骂他，就用德语——你不会想知道那些纳粹军官在香榭丽舍大道上说的话有多难听的——但我没料到这家伙居然听得懂德语。于是他也气坏了，抬脚踢我的肚子，我夺过他背上的枪指着他，正准备扣动扳机，他就一把把枪抢了过去扔得老远。  
然后他打我，用德语骂我，我再揍他，用更卑劣的德语骂回去——挺有趣吧？一个苏联人和一个法国人在莫斯科用德语交流。反正我回想时是觉得挺有趣的。  
很快那对姐妹又不得不从床上爬起来把我们俩拉开。我气喘吁吁地坐在地上，背靠墙壁，累得不行，听到不少邻居在门外喊话。这时伊万便沉默了。他让姐姐留下来给我处理伤口，带着妹妹出去了一会儿，回来时手里捧着块面包和更多的酒——他那架势分明是出去和邻居道歉的，最后反倒从他们手里讹了东西回来，真佩服他——看在面包的份儿上，我们又和好了。他的姐妹回到卧室，呵欠连天；我和伊万坐在客厅，他抱着酒瓶，我抱着面包。  
你看，我跟他的交集始于那晚，自四十年代末我回到法国后我就再也没听说过他的消息，直到二十年前娜塔莎，也就是他妹妹，告诉我他死了。我们在那小破房子里呆了近二十年。我、伊万和娜塔莎看着冬妮娅，他姐姐，在战后嫁给一个苏联军官；我们在圣诞节前讨论该买什么礼物好讨娜塔莎的欢心，那时苏联的圣诞节还在十二月二十五日；我教伊万用法国人的方法戒酒，虽然更多时候我们还是会坐在火炉前喝酒——只有那一夜被我铭记在心。如果伊万还活着，我很乐意拽着他的衣领问问他是否还记得我跟他第一次见面的那个夜晚——我知道他喝得烂醉，不过如果他用这个当借口说他把那些事情忘了个精光，我会一拳打断他的大鼻子。哈哈。  
那可不是个平常的夜晚。你知道后来发生了什么吗？纳粹的轰炸机开进了莫斯科，他们炸掉了……我不知道那是什么建筑，我读不懂那些文字。有两三栋吧，我知道的也就这么些了，也许更多。然后有人开始莫斯科上空放气球，巨大的气球，用钢筋拖着的那种。街上有军官巡逻，嚷嚷着让我们用胶带把玻璃贴住，到了晚上就有巨大的探照灯把云层照个透亮。巡逻兵，宵禁，永不停息的震颤与炮击，墙壁和天花板上朔朔下落的粉尘，隔壁传来的咳嗽声总和婴儿的哭声混在一起。那对姐妹躲在屋里担惊受怕，伊万那小子却跑到什么工厂去帮忙，回来时浑身油污、摇摇晃晃，肚子叫得震天响；又或是跟着什么长官去了郊外，回来后就一头栽倒在地上，靴底沾的泥巴足以为莫斯科砌一堵新城墙。但那都是后话。  
好了，不吊你胃口了。像我这种有故事的老头子废话总是特别多，不过我是不打算改了，你自己掂量着吧。  
“你是做什么的？”，这是他问我的第一个问题。  
我说：“我是个法国人。以前是画家，之后是士兵，然后是难民，现在是不是苏联人我不清楚。反正我不太会说俄语，不喜欢这儿冻死人的冬天，也不觉得共产主义可行。”  
他没说话，只是摇摇头。我看他那副军人打扮，突然想起了点事情，于是我说：“是不是你的长官叫你来打探我的底细？”  
他摇头，说：“那倒没有，不过我个人是挺想好好盘问盘问你的。”  
他说这句话的时候我就觉得这家伙欠打，不过我实在是打不动了。所以我问：“你是做什么的？”  
他说：“军人，工兵，刚刚说过了。”  
之后是一阵挺尴尬的沉默。有那么一段时间他只顾着闷头喝酒，而我当时才和他说上话，谈不上熟识，就懒得去阻拦他。我吃着自己手中的面包——是那种掺了木屑的，咯牙，有点酸但挺好吃的。  
当我吃完所有的面包后，我听到他说了一句话。  
“你为什么不留在巴黎？”他问我。  
我拍拍手上的面包屑或者木屑，反问道：“我应该留在巴黎吗？”  
他说：“大多数法国人不都还留在巴黎吗？虽然也有不少人去了英国和西班牙，但你也没必要花那么久的功夫跑到莫斯科来吧？”  
“你见过那副场景吗？德国人攻占法国的场景？”我问他，他摇摇头，说不知道。  
我对他说，当德国人攻破马其顿防线时，我还在学校里临摹石膏像。之后某天有一个军官带着教授跑到我们的教室里，让所有的男性公民跟他走。我们随着他登上火车，这才意识到我们是要不明不白的往前线去，而此时大多数人还对法国边境沦陷的消息一无所知——满火车的人。裁缝，司机，厨师，别说上战场了，会开枪的都寥寥无几。我们这批人在第一次与德军对峙时就死伤大半。我和几位同僚被德军俘虏，那群纳粹们就这么把我们带回了巴黎。我简直不敢相信那世界上最繁华的都市竟会对纳粹敞开怀抱。我看到城市的管理者与纳粹长官握手拥抱，我看到法国女人们对纳粹士兵趋之若鹜，我竟然看到有个婊子当街说高卢男人是劣等民族，理应被“最完美的”雅利安人统治3——我无法理解，你知道吗？我无法理解。你有没有听说过东亚文化中一个叫做“宁愿自杀也不能妥协”的概念？什么玉啊瓦啊之类的东西。你知不知道很多日本军官和普通人在日本投降时自杀？而我们呢？当年，在巴黎，我曾被一个下士押出牢房。我本以为自己会被某个德国佬枪毙，结果那混蛋居然要我上街拉几个女人来伺候他。我问那混蛋为什么非让我去，他说因为我是营里唯一一个会说法语和德语的家伙。呵，好，这真是好极了！  
然后？然后伊万问我发生了什么。我说……哈，我说我变成了一个该死的皮条客。对，皮条客。你知道我是怎么做的吗？每当那长官想找个妓女来享受一下，他就叫一个下士来带我出去——一个妓女换我一顿好一点的饭。于是我让那下士牵着一条绳子，绳子末端栓在我的腰上。我会走在前面，大摇大摆，胸口上挂一块木牌：“女性职位，貌美从优4”。人人都知道这意味着什么。我也不是第一个被他们这么羞辱的法国男人。  
“我生在巴黎，长在巴黎，那里有全世界最美味的食物，最醇的酒和最美丽的姑娘。在战争前巴黎曾是个天堂——她一直是，没有哪个城市能比得上巴黎，巴黎是神赐予整个世界的财富。看着她腐烂比看着她溃败还要叫我难受。”  
最终我一共为这混蛋找了三四十个妓女。当他被调离巴黎前往苏联时，他带走了一个名叫“玛丽”的家伙，一个金发美人。他也坚持要带走我，说什么“离开你我就无法了解小玛丽的需求了”之类的鬼话。  
求求你，可别向我询问那混蛋的姓名。你只需要知道我后来得空逃离了他的队伍，混进一支前往莫斯科的逃难者队伍就行——我远远地跟着他们，吃草，吃嫩树枝，吃他们落下的食物，偶尔吃蘑菇和泥土。  
我跟伊万说这不是一段美好的回忆。伊万点点头，一边喝酒一边跟我说他原本的理想是做一个小说家，结果因为一些事情才半途而废、辍学从军。我问他是什么事情，他说他写作课的老师曾是一个狂热的纳粹分子，坚信纳粹制度与共产主义制度有相似之处，并终将成为世界的灯塔。而伊万十分厌恶纳粹的种族主义制度。当他在某天当众指出纳粹制度与共产主义无法共存时，他的导师把他骂了个狗血淋头，然后找了个理由向上级汇报伊万“思想不正”，彻底断了伊万成为小说家的前途。  
“在篝火边旋转的你的裙摆/  
红、红、红、黄/  
我的梦想死在你的舞步下/  
虽然它们只活过三秒”  
这是他念给我的第一首诗，你看，多么美丽！他曾给我念过千千万万首这样的诗歌啊——伊万·伊万诺维奇·布拉金斯基是个天生的诗人，玩文字的，而不是什么他妈的军人！就像我，弗朗西斯·波诺弗瓦，一个完美的艺术家。你看到这房间里的画没有？那都是我画的，都是我画的！你觉得它们漂不漂亮？漂亮。好。那它们一定会火，它们一定有出头之日，它们都无可取代！就像伊万的诗歌一样！  
“不要倾倒啊/  
梦想的红旗与枯枝/  
烧焦而不可辩的碑铭5/  
你要去见无眠之夜的群星”  
你看看它，你看看它，它多么美啊！  
这孩子，这好孩子！我听到他念出那首诗时我就是这么想的——我都几岁啦？我出生于一九一二年，那时的我都快三十啦！而他呢？十七八岁，二十不到，年轻得像棵森林里的小栗树苗——他一点都不像个二十岁不到的孩子。看看他，看看他！他皱着眉头喝酒，一瓶接着一瓶的喝，吃的也多，壮得像头熊！而我呢？我三十啦，我从他的诗歌里看到了血，看到了一片土地的心跳。我几乎要忘记我以前有多么憎恨苏联这个国家——就是这家伙，这该死的共产主义的温床，和纳粹一起占领了我美丽的法兰西！  
但我想起来了。于是我跳起来打他，重重地打他，一拳一拳地往他脑袋上砸。他喝懵了，一下子被我打得站不起来。我把他按倒在地，掐他的脖子。他的姐妹都睡得很熟，他的邻居也没被我打扰——我激动极了！我听到血液在耳边砰砰跳，我想掐死他，直截了当的掐死这个伊万诺维奇，掐死这个乌托邦的信徒！我对他说了些“我他妈要杀了你、剁成肉酱”和“这都是你的错”之类的话，然后他突然反擒住我，位置改变，一分不少地把我刚刚打在他身上的那些拳头还了回来。这又是一场战争。我与他，过去与现在，资本主义与共产主义，随你怎么影射都行。只要记住这场战争静悄悄的，无人死亡，只有两个可怜的打不动架的家伙躺在地板上，鼻青脸肿，揪着彼此的衣服哭得上气不接下气。  
我为什么哭？谁知道？也许是因为疼？也许是因为饿？也许是因为我本来可以成为一个画家，现在却只能待在这个鸟不拉屎的莫斯科跟一个醉鬼打架？他为什么哭？我也不知道。他说他是个工兵，也许明天就要上战场了也说不定？你知道他们在莫斯科郊外埋过多少地雷吗？没人知道！他们甚至在莫斯科市里的建筑内埋放地雷，只为预防德国人攻进城里来6，而伊万正是负责埋放地雷的那群家伙中的一个。他说以后莫斯科城外将有成百上千的纳粹栽在他们埋的地雷上，他说现在莫斯科城外正堆着一座小山一样的工兵的尸体，他说也许明天他的脑袋就会被人扔到那山尖尖上，脚插在躺在半山腰的另一个伊万诺维奇的肚子里，他要胃肠朝天，剩下的部分被地雷炸成肉泥，挂在白桦树的树梢上。  
可谁他妈在乎这些？全苏联有千千万万个伊万，千千万万个伊万诺维奇，谁要管他们？谁要管我眼前这个可怜人的死活？难道是我吗？放他妈的狗屁！我知道的就是这千千万万个伊万诺维奇推了那群该死的德国人一把，他们都一样的脏，一样的下流，他们都是杀人不眨眼的恶魔！  
“你为什么要毁掉她！”于是我哭着从地上坐起来，拽住他的衣领摇晃着“你毁了我的法兰西！你毁了我的法兰西！”  
“你毁了我啊！你毁了我啊！”他也哭号着大吼“为什么法国士兵那么不堪一击？为什么？你们这群贪生怕死的家伙，你们为什么不勇敢些？冲啊！上啊！拖住那个约翰尼斯7！难道死亡是什么可怕的东西吗！？你们要是能打败德国士兵，我们就……”  
“你要去死吗？好呀，你要去死吗！”我冲他吼道“伟大的伊万·伊万诺维奇·布拉金斯基要成为英雄是吗？去啊，你去啊！扔下你的姐姐，扔下你的妹妹，德军就在西边！刚跨过加里宁格勒，还没到维亚济马8。你不是勇敢吗？你怎么不冲到刀尖上去？你怎么不去送死！？”  
“你个懦夫，懦夫！弗朗西斯·波诺弗瓦！”他又哭着往我脸上揍了一拳“你就是个怕死的懦夫！波诺弗瓦！你就该和你那没卵用的同僚死在敦刻尔克9！我唾弃你！懦夫，我唾弃你！”  
我也一拳头打在他肚子上“装什么大头伊万诺维奇！”我对他吼，他捂着肚子往后一仰，我又在他右腿上踹了一脚，边哭边坐在地上往后挪“我怕死又怎么了？难道你不怕死吗！？当年我意识到我再也无法成为画家的时候难道我不想死吗！？当年我跟条狗似的被纳粹带上街的时候难道我不想死吗！？是，我懦夫，我受过三次枪伤，六次拷问，二十二次鞭打，不知道身上有多少道伤疤。我自杀一次，绝食一次，四度濒死，之所以能从巴黎逃到莫斯科是因为我傍着德国军官和他包养的法国妓女——我怎么还活着啊！上帝，我怎么就是没办法自杀啊！？来，你有枪，伊万诺维奇，来，对着我的脑袋开一枪——你杀了我，你杀了我啊！”  
“滚开！……混蛋！混蛋！！我怕死，我怕死啊！弗朗西斯·波诺弗瓦，我怕得要命，我怕得尿裤子——托里斯，我最好的朋友托里斯，我看到托里斯的尸体时哭得呕吐！我唯一的朋友啊！难道他就想死吗！？这世界上有谁不怕死啊！”  
他哭着，我也哭着；卧室里的姐妹早就被我们吵醒了，她们哭着；邻居也被我们吵醒了，他们也哭着，到处都是此起彼伏的哭叫声。房间里，公共走廊里，楼梯上，厕所，厨房，洗衣间，呜呜嗷嗷，此起彼伏，群魔乱舞。  
最后那大块头终于安静下来了。他趴在壁炉边吐了一阵，擦擦嘴，带着股酸味儿坐到我身边，和我一起倚在壁炉旁那温暖的墙上。  
“我有什么办法呢……”他靠在我身边，低声呜咽着“我才十七岁，我没谈过恋爱，我脑子里还存着一部小说——‘猎人爱上了他追捕的鹿。他追着、赶着，在开满向日葵的田野里为它献上一束美丽的花’……可是不死又能怎么样？如果哪天我的长官叫我为了伟大的革命事业去死，我又有什么办法？我还不得去死？多害怕都没用，为了这些家伙，为了她，我就是要去死啊……”  
我怔怔的沉默着，满脸泪水，在伊万断断续续的抽泣声中抬手揉了揉酸痛的喉咙。我突然意识到伊万口中的“她”应该是指苏联或者莫斯科……反正对他而言这两个东西差别不大。  
之后你也知道了，伊万没死，在参与一系列布雷活动后他平平安安的回来了。莫斯科战役时他作为工兵走过一趟红场，只可惜摄影机没能拍下他那滑稽模样。一九四三年时他去了什么勒热夫、维亚兹马10之类的地方，然后回莫斯科做情报员与后勤兵直到战争结束。十五年后他成了一个跟他父亲、祖父、曾祖父一样的酒鬼，一个债台高筑的混蛋，成天捧着个旧酒壶喝个没完。冬妮娅和娜塔莎说他几句他就不肯回家，骂骂咧咧的在街上徘徊，睡垃圾堆，领救济食物，直到一九七七年冬季醉死在自家沙发上。他终生未娶。  
那时有个医生说他得了什么创伤后综合征11，还以伊万为例发表了不少东西。他还说我也得了，不过介于我现在还活得好好的，我觉得那医生就是在放屁而已。  
不过可惜的是我再也没有听说过有关他脑海里的那部小说的消息。娜塔莎曾跟我说伊万在醉后跟她描述过几个片段，可当伊万醒后，他却说自己什么都不记得，更别提那些动笔写小说的念头了。  
你瞧，这就是我所能说的、有关“那场战争”的所有事情。你肯定很失望对吧？这没什么好写的——伊万他很少在我们面前开枪，他不关心党派，也从未受获过勋章。现在全俄罗斯有无数个伊万·伊万诺维奇·布拉金斯基，苏联时期也是，沙皇俄国我不清楚，那太久远了，好多人甚至都没有命名权。你根本弄不清哪个叫伊万·伊万诺维奇·布拉金斯基的是他。  
可重要的是，当时我认识的那个伊万还好好地活着。而“那场战争”？你比我更清楚那些数字。对我来说，“那场战争”带走了几百万个“伊万”，也许还有他们背后数不胜数的“冬妮娅”和“娜塔莎”。  
你觉得他们该死吗？不，没有人应该去死，没有人应该赴死。没有人被要求去牺牲自己，没有人被要求去中断理想，没有人被要求去停止爱慕，没有人被要求去遏制恐惧。我们都怕死——你，我，伊万，冬妮娅，娜塔莎。被德军用枪指着脑袋时我尿裤子了，我扔下枪向他们投降；伊万看到托里斯的尸体时吓得胆汁都呕出来了，好几天没法进食，因为那是他唯一的朋友。当我们面对失去挚友的哀恸与被敌人羞辱的痛苦，难道我们不想死吗？  
不啊，我们想死啊，但我们得活下去，因为我们没有办法。你可以说这是借口，你可以说我们懦弱，但那又怎么样呢？伊万说他为了冬妮娅和娜塔莎而活着，可当他真正能与她们在一起之后他却死了——哈哈，什么鬼话，他活着只是为了自己而已，我们活着都只是为了自己。  
没有人要去以命换命，没有人需要去以命换命，但还是有人在赴死。这就是“那场战争”。一群懦夫和另一群懦夫的争斗，一帮傻瓜和另一帮傻瓜拼命，一个比一个笨，一个比一个死得快。  
但我依旧对那些死了的笨蛋们心怀感激，因为不是所有人都像他们一样，笨得愿意冲到最前头去，用自己只有一次的青春和生命往子弹上撞，心甘情愿的把最宝贵的东西留给我们。包括那个我认识的伊万。  
……什么？你要给我拍照片？别开玩笑了。收拾干净你的东西，滚出我的房子吧。我只是个犯浑的长寿的懦夫而已。别再逼我去感谢那帮傻瓜了。

 

 

1.二战时期法国籍记者https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pierre_Abraham  
2.二战时期法国籍记者https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Hatzfeld  
3.参考自http://bbs.tianya.cn/post-worldlook-823868-1.shtml  
4.此处为虚构情节。  
5.出自苏联歌曲《День Победы》  
6.出自纪录片《伟大的卫国战争-莫斯科保卫战》  
7.全名：约翰尼斯·埃尔温·尤金·隆美尔。在德国入侵法国时，他指挥的第7装甲师进展神速，挺进最远，被称为魔鬼之师。  
8.此处是弗朗西斯·波诺弗瓦的认知错误。他逃出德军队伍时德军还未挺进苏联内部，故他此处得出的只是个粗糙的估论，实际上在他与伊万交谈的那个夜晚，莫斯科战役已经拉开帷幕。  
9.敦刻尔克：法国地名，此处指代刻尔克战役，又称敦刻尔克大撤退，是第二次世界大战时欧洲大陆的一次战略性撤退，发生在德军突破马其顿防线后。  
10.此处指第二次勒热夫-维亚兹马进攻战役（19433.3.2—3.31）  
11.全称创伤后心理压力紧张综合征（Post traumatic stress disorder，或PTSD）

 

I remember that bad time in 1930s, when my country was conquered and I became homeless, being cold and hungry, picking fleas like monkeys in the jungle. At that time, I traveled to Moscow, the capital of USSR, with a group of Soviet refugee. The Soviet governor accepted us, they offered me a job and found a host family for me --- The Braginsky sisters, Donia Braginsky and Natasha Braginsky. Every day I clean their house, wash their clothes, receive foods(as one of the communist family member) and cook for them. For me it was hard to believe what I’ve seen there, a floor in a 5-layer-building with more than 20 families were sharing one kitchen, restroom, bathroom and laundry room. Sounds poor right? But trust me, if you’ve been in Paris at that time, you would enjoy Moscow as if you were in heaven, though the Russian cuisine was shit and the Braginsky sisters know nothing about French --- they also said bad things about me because they thought I knew nothing about Russian too. What a joke.  
Anyway, there was a night when I slept well and tight beyond the fireplace, there was a guy sneaked in. But he saw me while passing the living room, so he beat me on my head with anger. It happened all in sudden, what I can do was scream out and kick on his belly. Our battle woke up the sisters, they rushed out from the bedroom and separate us two by dragging and pushing. Finally I realized that this guy was the last member of Braginsky’s family. He seemed not please about me being there, at least I don’t think “White-skin pig of capitalism” is a good phrase. But I cannot curse him back because my Russian was not good enough, and this guy had a gun on his shoulder.  
Don’t laugh at me, it’s not about the gun!  
Well, the first impression was never good, but I have to admit that he was a handsome boy. He’s Slavic, tall and tough. Have you seen purple eyes? Have you ever heard of a person has all hair whiten in 20s? It’s him --- incredibly good-looking, like a roman status. If I ever had a chance to bring him to Paris at that era, he would be surrounded by women in every kind, just in a blink of the eyes. And there would be roses and scarfs, red and white and purple, he must be shocked by those warm and welcoming Paris girls.  
I also had a good look at that time, but I was unable to keep a photograph, neither mine or his. That’s pity.  
At last we agreed with each other in the help of sisters. We apologized and exchanged our name. He said he’s called Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky, the engineer of army. I said my name is Francis Bonnefeuille, a refugee from France.  
Then we set on the fireplace and drank --- you may guess out what I’m going to talk about. Yes, few words between two drunk men, not a big deal --- he’s an alcoholist. Yes, he’s in the army but he’s still an alcoholist, so did his father, grandfather and grand-grandfather. His grand-grandfather got drunk and fell off from the horse back; his grandfather got a neck-twisted wound in a bar; his father dead suddenly after he finished the last bottle of vodka, several years after, Ivan dead for alcoholism too. Some time you have to believe that there are some people destined to be alcoholist because their genes tell them to do so. At that night we set on the fireplace together, he drank vodka like a cow drinking water --- nobody can take that in this way. Then he started to speak drunk words, what a jerk.  
“Do you have a middle name, Bonnefeuille?” he started with this question.  
“No, aucun(means ‘No’ in french), my dad never thought about having a middle name for me --- I know my dad’s name is ‘Francis’ and your dad’s name is ‘Ivan’, but never ever call me ‘Francis Francisvich’. I’m warning you Ivan. If you dare to call me in this way I would knock you on your head with this vodka bottle and knock your sisters’ heads too.”  
“You can try, Francis Francisvich.”  
He was just like a troublesome American cowboy when he said “Francis Francisvich”, but for the gun’s sake, I’m not gonna knock his sisters’ heads. However, I pretended to do it as I grabbed my glass bottle and walked to the bedroom. When I did that Ivan was so angry as a preying lion. He gripped my ankle and dragged me down to the floor, rode upon my body and beat me on my face. I fought back on his chest and kicked his butt, then he pulled my hair while I bitten on his arm. I started to curse him in German because I knew more about German dirty words --- they used to spoke these shit on Avenue des Champs-Élysées, but I never expect that Ivan knew German too. So he got furious, started treading my body. I snatched his gun, pointed at him, ready to pull the trigger, but lost the aim as he kicked on the barrel.  
Then we fought again. We fought, beating on our faces and cursed each other in German --- quite interesting huh? A Slavic and a French cursed each other in USSR with German. Meanwhile the sisters were woke up again. They separated us and let me lay on the floor for rest. I gasped and painted, hearing a lot of sounds from our neighbors --- they were woke up, too. Now Ivan became silence. He left Donia wrapped for me and went out with Natasha, then brought three bottles of vodka and a piece of bread back --- I thought he went out for apology! Anyway, because of that bread, we agreed with each other again.  
You see, it is the night that our friendship started. I had never heard of him since I went back to France in 1940s, not until 20 years ago, Natasha, his sister, told me that he was dead. We spend around 20 years in that poor little house. Me, Ivan and Natasha witnessed Donia’s marriage with a Soviet officer; we argued about the Christmas present for Natasha, while the Soviet’s Christmas was still in Dec. 25th; I taught Ivan how to reject the seduce of alcohol in a French way, though we spent more time drinking together --- after all of these things I’ve done with him, it is the only night I remembered deep in my mind. If Ivan still alive, I’d be happy to ask him if he’s still remember the night we met. But if he said no, I would be happy to break his nose with my feast.  
It was not a normal night. Do you know what happened after that? Nazi’s bombing planes arrived. They boomed out... Some buildings, I can’t read those Russian words. Then people started to set up balloons, the huge balloons dragged by iron wires. There were solider on the street all the time, yelling at us to tape our window tightly. At night those huge beams of light shot to the clouds, making Moscow became St. Petersburg. There were solider patrolling, curfew, everlasting shaking and booming, shatters from ceiling and walls, the babies always crying and the old people always coughing. Donia and Natasha were frightened all days long, but Ivan was always working at some factory, and he was always dirty and tired and hungry when he came back; or he was going out with some officer out of Moscow, when he’s back, the mud on his shoes was so thick that I don’t doubt that Moscow can make a new city-wall with it.  
But that’s the story afterwards. After we made that peace, he started to asking questions again: “What’s your job?” he asked. I said: ”I used to be a painter, then solider, then refugee, now a factory worker here. I don’t know if I am a USSR citizen or not. I don’t know Russian much, I don’t like this damn freezing winter here. And I don’t believe in communism.”  
He didn’t answer but shaked his head. I stared at him, remembered that he’s an engineer of army: “Is that what your officer let you ask me?”  
He shaked his head again: “No, that’s personal.”  
I really want to beat him up when he say this, but I was running out of energy, so I choose to remain silence, and that’s when the embarrassing silence came, when he spent his time on drinking his vodka and me chewing bread. At that time the breads in USSR always have some wood shatters inside, it makes the bread tastes sour.  
“Why did you come here?” he asked after I finished my bread. “Why not?” I asked back.  
“The majority French people are now living in England and Spain. ”he said. “What makes you come here all the way?”  
I told him that I have no choice. “Have you seen what does Paris look like now?” I asked him, and answered his question after he shaked his head for the third time.  
“I was having my art class when German conquered Ligne Maginot(Maginot Line).” I said. “Then an officer came. He brought all male citizen to the train station, including me. Over there we were stuffed in the train with people in every kind: chef, driver, business man, feeling nothing but fear when we heard that we are going to fight for our country in the battle field --- most of us don’t even know how to pull the trigger by that time! Finally, half of us were died at the first fight. Me and my pals chose to surrender, and the German brought us back to Paris. I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it, that Paris, the most flourish city in the world, opened her chest and welcomed German army. I saw the mayor shaking hands with German officers, I saw French women surrounded and flirted with German solider. I just can’t understand it, you know? I can’t understand it, that how French people let their country be humuliated! There, in Paris, I used to be pulled out of jail. I thought I’m gonna die! But the manner was commanded, and I have to find a hooker for the German officer, because I was the only one who knew both French and German. Then I became a pimp, serving the officer whenever he wants to ‘spare some free time’. I walked on the street, followed by a German solider, hanging a board on my neck and write down: ‘jobs for women’, and every one knew what does that mean. I was born and grown up in Paris, I knew there’s where the best food, wine and girl. Paris used to be the heaven before that war --- She always be! Paris is the God bless, there’s nothing like Paris! Watching her rotting brought me more hurt than watching her defeated!”  
“Don’t ask me about his name... I ran away from him while his army heading here. Then I followed a Russian refugee group. That’s how I came here.”  
I told Ivan that it’s not a good memory. Ivan nodded, had a drink and said: “I used to be a novelist, but my dream didn’t continued long, so I dropped off and attended in army.” “What happened?” I asked. “My professor adored Nazi and believed communism has some sorts of similarities with it. I argued with him on lecture, defeated him, the he accused me for some charges in the party, so I have to give up. ”  
ваша юбка вращают за пределы костра /  
красная, красная, красная, желтая /  
Моя мечта умирает под ваши шаги танцующих /  
Несмотря на то, что они живут  
This is the first poem he read for me. See how beautiful it is! He used to read hundreds and  
thousands of poems like this! Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky was lived for literature!  
не падают !/  
флаг мечты и мертвые ветви /  
сгоревших и бесспорные надписи /  
вы будете ехать, чтобы увидеть звезды бессонной ночи  
You see it? You see it! How beautiful they are!  
“What a excellent boy!” This was what I thought when I heard his poems. I mean, how old am I? I was born in 1912, I was about 30 at that time! But he’s just 17 or 18 years old, not 20s, he’s as young as a little white brich --- he never liked a kid under 20. I mean, look at him, he frowned when he drinks, and he drank a lot. He ate much, he’s more than 6.7 feet, he’s as strong as a bear! What about me? I saw blood in his poem, see the heartbeat of this land. I almost forgot how I hate USSR --- That’s it! This damn breeding ground of communism, it’s USSR who occupied France with German army!  
But now I remembered. So I stand up and beat him again and again on his head, and he had too much vodka to react. I pushed him on the ground and clutched on his neck --- it’s quiet, his sisters were asleep, there’s no disturbance from the neighbors. I was excited! I heard blood pumping through my ears, I wanted to chock him till death! Kill this Ivanovich! Chock this damn believer of Utopia! I murmured about these words, and Ivan heard it. He chocked me on my neck as well and fought me back. This was the beginning of another battle: me and him, the past and the present, capitalism and communism, whatever reflection you can make. It was quiet, no casualties but two weary men laying on the floor with bruises on their face, tugging each other’s cloth and sobbing severely.  
Why was I crying? Who knows? Because of hurt? Because of the truth that I could be a painter, but fighting with a deep-drunk in Moscow where the birds would never willing to shit on it? Why was he crying? I don’t kow. Maybe he’s going to the battle field tomorrow. Do you know how many landmines they placed in Moscow? Nobody knows! They even placed landmines inside the city in order to avoid invasion, and Ivan was one of them. He said there would be millions of landmines around Moscow, where the body of solider were gathered as a little hill because of a single wrong step. He said, maybe by tomorrow, his head would be throw on the top of that hill, feet stick in another Ivanovich’s stomach, intestine exposed to the sky, leave his remaining boomed to a chunk of dead meat, hanging on the branches nearby.  
But who’s fucking caring about it? There are millions of Ivan and millions of Ivanovich in USSR, who’s gonna care about them? Me? Fuck it! It’s the millions of Ivanovich who’s pushing the German army at their back! Those dirty, nasty, disgusting people, they are the demons!  
“Why did you destroy it!?” I sit up and cried, pulled his collar and shaked him back and force. “You ruined my France! You ruined my France!”  
“You destroyed me!” he cried too. “Why are you so weak!?? Why!?? You coward! Move! Rush! Kill Rommel! What are you afraid of? If you could defeat German army...”  
“You wanna die huh? You wanna die?” I yelled at him. “The great Ivan Ivanovich want’s to be the hero huh? All right. Go there! Leave Moscow, leave your sisters, the German’s in the west! They had just crossed Kaliningrad, they’ve not reaching Vyazma. You thought you are brave? Why don’t you go to the front line? Why don’t you go and kill yourself?”  
“You are a coward! A coward! Francis Bonnefeuille!” he cried and punched me on my face again. “You are a coward afraid of death! Bonnefeuille! You should die with your pals in Dunkirk! I hate you! Coward, I hate you!”  
And I punched him back on stomach: ”What kind of hero are you playing!?” I shout at him, he lay back on the floor and I kicked him on his right thigh. “What’s wrong with living? Don’t you wanna be alive? When I realized that I cannot become a painter, I thought of death. When I was on the street of Paris with the board, I thought of death! Yes, I am a coward. I had three shots, six interrogations, twenty-two slashes. I committed suicide once, hunger strike once, I was dying for four times. I lived because of the German officer and his French hookers --- why am I still alive!!! God! Why I cannot kill myself!!! Come to me, Ivanovich, you have your gun! Come on! Point here, point my head --- Kill me, kill me!!!!!!”  
“Get off asshole! ... I wanna live! I wanna live!!! Francis Bonnefeuille, I want to live... Toris, my best friend Toris, when I saw his body I cried and vomited! That’s my only friend! Does he want to die? Who want to die in this world!??”  
I cried, he cried; Donia and Natasha were awake, they cried; the neighbors were awake, they cried, too. There are cryings everywhere. In the room, in the corridor, elevators, restrooms, kitchens, laundries, echoing around in this building.  
“What can I do... What can I do...” finally we calmed down. I lay on the ground again as he lay beside me, staring on the floor and murmuring. “I’m seventeen. I’ve never fall in love before. I have a fiction in my mind: ‘the hunter chases a deer in the forest. He runs and runs and runs, send her a brunch of sunflowers.’ ...But the death cannot be avoid. If my officer want me to die for the greater prospect, what can I do? I still gonna die anyway, no matter how afraid I am. For the people and my country, I can’t leave, I have to die...”  
Both of us were silent with tears on our faces.  
And, you know the outcome already: Ivan was alive. He’s good after finish his landmine work. before the battle of Moscow he was pleasured to walk on the Red Square as one of the solider, but the camera didn’t take him. Then he went to the front for six month, and became an operator until the war ended. 15 years later he became a alcoholist just like his father, grandfather and grand-grandfather. He drank all day and borrowed money from everywhere. Donia and Natasha warned him about it, but he never put their words into his head. He left his home, slept in the bar and lived with refugee foods. Finally he died on his couch at home in 1977. He never got married.  
At that time there was a doctor said that Ivan was suffered from PTSD, and published several papers based on Ivan’s case. He also said I had that too. However, I treat his word as shit since I’m still alive. But I never heard about Ivan’s novel anymore --- Natasha said Ivan had described several scenes to her after he get drunk. But when he’s awake, he started to remember nothing but vodka again, not to mention a single wish to continue his writing.  
You see, this is everything I can think of about that war. You must be disappointing right? There’s nothing to write about --- Ivan never shoot in front of us, he doesn’t care about the party, he never get award. Now there are innumerable Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky as it did back to USSR. I’m not sure about the Russian Empire, it’s too old for someone to have a name. But the important thing is, before that war, the “Ivan” I used to know was alive. And that war... You know the number of casualties. For me, that war killed millions of “Ivan”, maybe also killed “Donia” and “Natasha” too. Do you think they deserve it? No, no one deserves death, no one should run for that. We all have fear to death --- you and me, Ivan, Donia, Natasha. I was frightened and peed my pants when the German solider point me with their guns; Ivan cried and vomited when he saw Toris’ body, he cannot even have a meal for few days, because Toris is his only friend. When we’re facing the sadness of losing our best friend and the pain of being humuliated by our enemies, don’t we wanna die? Yeah, we do, but we have to live, because we have no way to choose. You can say it is an excuse, you can say that we are cowards, but does that mattered? Ivan said he lived for Donia and Natasha, but when he dead when he is able to spend some time with them --- he’s living for himself, we all live for ourself. Nobody’s asked to exchange their life for an enemy’s life, nobody needs to do that, but there are people doing it.  
It is “that war”: a group of coward fought with another group of coward, a group of fool exchanged their life for another group of fool’s. The fools died at the beginning, the cowards lived in the end. But I still appreciate it, because every one wants to live, but they were such a addle-head. They were willing to run to the front, hit the bullet with their life and dream that never come back, and be willing to leave the most valuable things with us. That also includes the Ivan I knew.  
... Don’t take my photo! Get your stuff and leave my room. I’m just a old long-living coward, don’t make me thank those fools again.


End file.
